


somebody who loves me

by behzaintfunny



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Developing Relationship, Drunk Peerlo of Doom, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, this is so stupid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24424714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behzaintfunny/pseuds/behzaintfunny
Summary: The year is 2004.Giampaolo Pazzini is Atalanta's young promising striker, chancing his luck at promotion, and greatly practising his sanity. Riccardo Montolivo is not exactly taking the dancing world by storm just yet, but is certainly planning to do so. Andrea Pirlo is being a nuisance and a darling alike.This is their story.
Relationships: Riccardo Montolivo & Andrea Pirlo, Riccardo Montolivo/Giampaolo Pazzini
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	somebody who loves me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeapAngstily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/gifts), [flamingosarepink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamingosarepink/gifts).



> *chuckles nervously* I've had this WIP since October 27th 2018.  
> Because it is still (!!!) not finished, I'm resolutely deciding to just publish what I have and finish it whenever. Gifting this to Milla because I've only ever thought of this AU because of you, and to Avi, because I've been teasing you about this fic for far too long than is socially acceptable. I love you both.  
> Enjoy this... thing.

When they meet amidst the excruciatingly cold winter of 2003 and Riccardo tells him he dances, Giampaolo doesn't think much of it at first.

Riccardo isn't the only competitive one out the two of them, after all.

Giampaolo finds his footing in the Serie B almost surprisingly well, a faint dream of promotion and glory reverberating inside his mind during every passing second. Playing at a professional level does not differ much from the youth system, he quickly realizes. The only difference is the gut-wrenching pain he feels every time a goal gets past Taibi, their last line of defence, and the looming feeling that he could have done better. He thrives, however, on the adrenaline part of it, his feet moving and twitching even when he is supposed to be resting.

It's like everything he has dreamed of as a boy, going up the imaginary ladder in Atalanta's ranks, a very blurry image of him lifting the Coppa already there amongst his many fantasies. It's almost there, promotion, so close within his grasp that it's all he can think about these days.

They're second in the table once January finally comes, a whole new year bringing new opportunities, and he cannot think straight anymore.

Riccardo walks him to training once, face hidden snug behind cover of at least two scarves, hands clutched inside his pockets so tightly Giampaolo can hear his knuckles crack. He is patiently listening to everything Giampaolo has to say about the upcoming match against Salernitana away, knowing full well he should not be hearing about any of the tactics, but here he is nonetheless. Giampaolo does not stop talking even when it starts to snow, little specks tingling at the top of his scalp, like the more he voices it, the more certain a win it will be.

Riccardo halts in his movements and promptly stands in front of Giampaolo, whose mouth didn't yet have a chance to close. He just stands there dumbfounded, studying the judgemental look Riccardo gives him. He only blinks when Riccardo's hand is on his shoulder, cold and trembling, strengthening him in place.

"It's fine." Riccardo tells him, the words falling out of his lips the way a mother confronts her anxious child, "You're going to be fine. They're 11th in the table, for crying out loud. How bad can it be?"

Giampaolo stares at him through lidded eyes, practically forcing his mouth shut before laughing nervously. His hand finds Riccardo's own on top of his shoulder and squeezes delicately, as though to actually make himself believe his words. Giampaolo was childishly confident for the most part about Salernitana and the rest of the season alike, but now that it actually matters, he is starting to seriously doubt his own abilities.

It's not like December has been a particularly kind month for him, the ball never going off his feet the way he wanted it to. He cannot miss the way Riccardo's eyes pierce through his soul, so blue they may be out of this world after all, not even if he tried to.

"If you really say so, then it will." Giampaolo says, going for the feigned confidence but failing miserably, if Riccardo's little smile says anything, "Though I guess you'll have to come and see for yourself, right?"

He does, on a frosty January afternoon, and Giampaolo scores in the 3rd minute. Salernitana stand no chance, never did.

Giampaolo takes the ball home after the match and his first brace for Atalanta. _"The first of many!"_ , he tells Riccardo when they're back home in Bergamo, snuggling for comfort and for warmth alike. Riccardo hums against the side of his neck in response, blurring the already unclear edges of what this is between them. He holds Giampaolo's hand in his own and asks if he'll come to watch his dance practice in turn. Giampaolo smiles against his hair and kisses the top of his head, confident that in itself is enough of a reply.

Mere days later, Riccardo takes him to practice as was promised, and life will never truly be the same. Giampaolo didn't know what he expected, _really_ , but reality exceeded all of his expectations.

Riccardo is beautiful.

It took Giampaolo a few very prolonged weeks to come around to accepting this fact but if he had any doubts before, they have all successfully faded now.

His hair flows messily through the air when he dances, every move perfected with utmost restraint, yet he still manages to make it look incredibly easy. His body moves languidly, showing off much more flexibility than Giampaolo had ever imagined Riccardo to possess. There is at least ten other people in the room with them (not like Giampaolo ever cares to look, though), yet somehow he makes it seem as though it is just him and his reflection swaying to the rhythm.

Riccardo dances with his eyes closed most of the time, so familiar with the muslces in his body that the sense of sight serves only as an occasional addition. It is a long hour of uncomfortably shifting in his seat and tapping his feet against the wooden panels for Giampaolo before people start exchanging pleasantries and leaving.

Giampaolo does not miss the way a certain man latches onto Riccardo in a hug too long to be casual, his cold eyes and practised smirk starting a fire burning deep inside Giampaolo's stomach. He wants to stand up, really, to at least say something, but his feet are plastered to the ground when Riccardo smiles at the guy so painfully sweetly.

Alas, they are alone. It is just Riccardo, his reflection, and a mildly uncomfortable Giampaolo. He watches the sweat beads falling down Riccardo's neck as he makes his way over to him and sits on the ground before him promptly.

"So, how did you like it?" Riccardo asks him, tying his hair in a loose ponytail so that it stops going in his eyes.

Giampaolo blinks, dumbfounded. It only causes Riccardo's sheepish grin to widen.

"That good?" Riccardo teases.

Giampaolo had long felt like a complete loser when faced with Riccardo Montolivo, the dance world's young prodigy, Italy's biggest hope for international success, especially when he saw the overwhelmingly large collection of medals hanging on the walls of Riccardo's room.

Really, he likes to think of himself as a rather successful footballer for his age and in his time. He knows it is only a matter of time before he and Atalanta reach Serie A glory and play amidst the big contenders, yet his confidence never fails to falter at least slightly when he hears of Riccardo's triumphs.

" _That_ good, idiot, and you know it!"

If Riccardo's expression is anything to go by, he doesn't deem Giampaolo entirely wrong.

  
***

Spring rolls by, and they are both similarly smitten with each other.

Riccardo stays the night more often than not, his belongings magically finding their way into Giampaolo's apartment and not seeming to want to go away. It's a toothbrush first and Riccardo's favourite pair of jeans not soon after.

Being on a tight schedule with the season slowly coming to a close, they see each other less and less, which is why it is a particularly pleasant surprise whenever Giampaolo finds Riccardo in his apartment after training, cooking up dinner or simply lounging on the couch. The very couch he had helped to carry up the stairs of his apartment block, after choosing it himself, having deemed that no, a pile of blankets and pillows is _not_ a suitable excuse for a couch.

Only, one of the afternoons after training when he most dearly craves Riccardo's attention, he does not find him alone.

No, the long-haired Adonis with a particularly shit-eating grin sitting at his dinner table is _definitely_ not his boyfriend, nor someone Giampaolo would have expected to see in his own apartment.

"Giampi!" Riccardo calls upon his arrival but it is not shame or embarassment that befalls his face, but rather sheer, unadulterated joy, "We were waiting for you."

The _we_ in question nods his head in acknowledgement before raising a glass to his lips-- are they drinking _wine_? Giampaolo cannot see himself from where he is standing, no mirror to be seen, but he can imagine the expression on his face does not quite match his boyfriend's delight.

"Giampi, this is Andrea. He's visiting from Milan. He's… my mentor, you could say."

 _Your what?_ , Giampaolo wants to say, and only his insurmountable amounts of patience stop him from saying it.

"He's exaggerating. I'm just a friend, really." Andrea says fondly, reaching to move a chair in an open invitation, "Wine?"

Giampaolo does not know how to possibly respond that, so he says nothing. He sits down at the table as Andrea pours him a generous glass, the very red wine he had bought and chosen to surprise Riccardo with. It appears, however, the surprise was not as cleverly hidden as he had hoped. Riccardo is balancing against the kitchen island, nails stubbornly biting into his chin, fighting back an amused smile.

"I believe we have met already, but I have not yet had the opportunity to properly introduce myself." Andrea tells him, eliciting a frown from Giampaolo, "I attend Riccardo's dance class from time to time."

"Ah, of course, how could I have forgotten?"

If either of them notice the irony seeping from his words, they both choose not to act on it.

"Andrea has agreed to be my partner in the upcoming competition," Riccardo begins, giddy with excitement and perhaps a little alcohol, "In _Milan_."

Giampaolo cannot fight back the smile that befalls his face.

Thus, Andrea Pirlo begins frequenting his apartment from time to time, always impeccably comfortable, but it is not as though Giampaolo can complain at his presence. Not precisely, at least.

They like dancing in his apartment because of the ambiance, which is what Pirlo called it, and because of the good amount of free space, according to Riccardo. At first, he found it rather insulting to see the man clad in naught but shorts and a worn out shirt, getting accustomed to Giampaolo's hospitality so eagerly, but Riccardo successfully made most of his uncertainities evaporate.

One of the evenings, Riccardo catches Giampaolo piercing invisible needles into Andrea's back with the intensity of his glare all the way from the couch. His face contorts in a gentle frown for a moment before something appears to click in his head. He does not pause the music before walking up to Andrea and telling him he'll rejoin him in a moment.

Riccardo's stride towards Giampaolo is downright crude, as he readjusts his bun hastily before claiming his place on top of Giampaolo's thighs and catching his lips in one swift movement. If watching Riccardo practise hasn't already caught Giampaolo's breath away, the kiss did just that.

He knows Andrea is watching. They _both_ know.

Giampaolo has never considered himself this sort adventurous, but for Riccardo, he might consider a change. If anything, Riccardo succeeded in diverting Giampaolo's attention from Andrea completely.

Riccardo pulls away from Giampaolo for a painfully long moment, breathing shallow against his lips, hands on either sides of his face. In the background, the music begins to pick up pace.

"Are you going to behave?" Riccardo whispers against his lips.

He leaves him just like that, if only a little bit more out of breath than previously. He and Andrea continue their dance, though it can hardly be considered serious practise at this point, as both of the men struggle to keep a serious face for longer than a mere second.

The nature of their relationship doesn't change, but Giampaolo's demeanor towards Andrea does.

In place of selfish (…and frankly uncalled for) jealousy, Giampaolo finds Andrea is genuinely a pretty incredible dancer, and a perfect fit for their routine. He feels confident in believing Andrea will do anything in his power to help Riccardo triumph again, on a much bigger scale than ever before.

Giampaolo begins to buy the wine _for_ Andrea, knowing that at the end of the day all three of them will leisure together, experience similar muscular pains and endulge themselves in just a little more wine than is advisable considering their career choices. Riccardo did choose a reasonably large couch, after all.

Eventually, Pirlo stops becoming _pirla_ in his head, though he'd never actually tell him that.

***

Giampaolo is good with boundaries. Frankly, he likes them.

He enjoys that his and Riccardo's interests differ, Riccardo's passion for football going as far as supporting AC Milan and frequenting Atalanta's matches, and Giampaolo's passion for dance only going as far as his passion _for Riccardo._

Which is why the sheer idea that he join Riccardo in a dance, even in the comfort of their living room, seemed not only inappropriate to him, but downright ridiculous.

"I'm not doing that." he tries to tell Riccardo as kindly as humanly possible, eyes diverting nervously from Riccardo's own and onto the stereo, "You are _not_ forcing me to do that."

Riccardo's sigh is exasperated, but he is smiling nonetheless, "You're right, I'm not forcing you. I'm asking you."

"Why don't you call Pirlo? I'm sure he would jump at the chance of finishing our leftovers."

"Because I want to dance with you, idiot." Riccardo tells him, annunciating it with a weak kick on his shin, "Not Pirlo, not anyone. _You!_ Consider it a fun couples' activity, or something like that."

Ah, so that's what they are doing these days.

"You're not gonna tell anyone of this, right? Not even Pirlo?"

If anything, it causes a fit of laughter to overcome Riccardo. "Fine, grumpy. Andrea doesn't have to know."

When Riccardo walks over to shuffle through the collection of various CDs that, too, have miraculously made their way into Giampaolo's apartment, a strange sort of worry emerges deep within Giampaolo's stomach. Whatever turmoil boils inside his brain does not appear to reach Riccardo, who is completely focused on the task at hand.

Possibly the last thing Giampaolo would ever willingly like to do is embarass himself before Riccardo.

That in itself is an understatement - there are many more grave matters in life that genuinely ought to be avoided at all costs. However, at the relatively early stage of the relationship he has found himself in, or so Giampaolo feels, he has still ought to try to impress, not _deter_.

This is not Riccardo's brightest idea by any means.

"What if I mess up my ankle or something?" he tries, going for pity, "My team needs me, come on Ricky, you know that!"

Riccardo snorts, not even gracing him with a look, "Look, I go to your football matches, I attend your training sessions when I can even though really don't need to, all simply because I love you. Now, be a good sport, and I promise you're going to like it."

He cannot really argue with that, now, can he?

A quiet hum of agreement reaches him from all the way accross the room, as Riccardo appears to have settled for one of the CDs. It's not one Giampaolo has ever seen before, and looks like a definite hand-me-down. Content in his choice, Riccardo places the lone disk on top of the stereo to be dealt with at a later time.

"How good overall would you say your experience with dancing is?"

The question in itself is fully innocent, but the knowing smile on Riccardo's face is not.

"Oh, you know… I watch you and Pirlo from time to time?"

"Do you also want to tell me you've been paying really close attention and have learned something?"

Giampaolo is yet to properly learn that Riccardo can be downright terryifying given the right circumstances. Sure, the tone of his voice betrays he is joking, yet a part of Giampaolo feels as though he really should have been paying closer attention.

"It's alright, I don't actually expect you to know anything." Riccardo tells him, annunciating it with taking hold of one of his hands gently, "That okay? There's going to be a lot of hand holding and we're going to get _very_ close to eachother."

 _What's new?_ He wants to ask, and it's only for his newly practised godlike sanity that he doesn't.

"Pay attention, yeah?"

They don't end up making it to the end of the song, but maybe it's better that they didn't.

Distantly, he knows Riccardo isn't going to let him off so easily. He manages to forget about that for the time being, letting the record instead play on repeat.

***

Upon coming home after training, possibly the last thing Giampaolo expected to see was Riccardo snuggled on the couch in what appears to be an uncannily accurate replica of the Azzurri hoodie that the players wear pre-match. Now, as far as Giampaolo knows, he is yet to get his first Italy U21 call-up, much less for _the_ national team, but…

Before he so much as has a chance to voice his confusion, he is interrupted by Andrea _singing_ , if you can even call it that, stirring up a pasta sauce with one hand and drinking wine from the other. A roar of laughter follows all the way from the couch.

"Shut up, Andrea! Stop embarassing me in front of my boyfriend!"

Riccardo's voice lacks conviction, and when Andrea turns around mid-sentence to grace them with a wink, it helps nothing to control his fits of laughter.

"…Are we going to talk about what you're wearing, Ricky?"

Not subtle, perhaps, but Giampaolo is yet to collect his jaw from the floor after seeing his Riccardo adorning the Azzurri colours, looking like some sort of rennaisance painting embodied. Riccardo gives him a confident smile, particularly amused with himself, before touching the embroidered Italian crest on his chest reverently.

"It's a gift from Andrea," Riccardo laughs, prompting the man in question to abandon his cooking and join him, "…for you!"

"Andrea?" Giampaolo repeats, running a tired hand accross his face, only to open his eyes to see a wholly amused Pirlo, and is that a _blush_ on his face?

"I have… connections." Andrea tells him with another wink, unceremoniously throwing himself at the couch beside Riccardo, "My roommate is a bus driver for the Italian Football Federation. He was escorting the national team to San Siro, you know, for yesterday's friendly--"

"Wait, stop right there." Giampaolo mutters, voice uncannily high, "You mean to tell me this is legit? You got this from _the_ Azzurri?"

Riccardo effectively butts in before Andrea has a chance to answer, "He did! With Rino's help, he got to meet some of the players before the match, _personally_ talk to them, and he collected a little souvenir after the match from one of them… Not just one souvenir either, right, Andrea?"

 _Yes_ , now Andrea Pirlo is definitely blushing on his couch at four in the afternoon, gracing Riccardo with a deadly serious glare that falters immediately as he cracks into a sheepish grin.

Giampaolo rushes to sit next to them, content that if he doesn't, he will eventually collapse onto the floor from the sheer shock value. Riccardo cuddles up at his side, and Giampaolo quickly comes to the conclusion that whoever Andrea stole this hoodie from, it smells nothing like Riccardo.

Andrea cannot stop smiling even as he speaks, "Rino is a good friend. I confessed to him that you're a _prolific_ striker yourself, and who your footballing idol is. Well… the rest is history."

Something changes in the air around them. A few cogs in Giampaolo's brain rattle furiously, desperately trying to find the missing piece of information before settling into a rhythm of realization, however terrifying that realization be.

"Shut the fuck up." he tells Andrea, deadly serious despite Riccardo grinning at his side, "You did _not_ steal this hoodie from Pippo fucking Inzaghi for me."

The sheepish smirk Andrea graces him with is enough of an answer in itself.

"He scored a hat trick that night! Absolutely _obliterated_ them! You could not have met Pippo Inzaghi, you fucking bastard!"

He knows he's yelling, and that his voice betrays just how ecstatic he truly is, as his emotions tug at his strings like that of a puppet. When Riccardo curls up at his side, Giampaolo flinches.

_This…_

"And you?" he whispers, completely incredulous, "You're wearing something this amazing, incredible bastard took off Inzaghi's body…"

It's… sacred.

Riccardo regards himself in an absolutely shameless way, "I sure am!"

The cogs continue to rattle inside Giampaolo's brain. He feels he ought to be fidgeting, though he cannot say for sure. In truth, he can hardly comprehend where he is or what's happening anymore.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Andrea Pirlo, positively audacious, adorning the most kind smile on his face. To his utter horror, before so much as even thinking, Giampaolo reaches all the way accross Riccardo, splaying on top of him, to embrace Andrea in a _very_ impromptu hug.

Face squished into Andrea's belly, much closer than they have ever been before, he whispers, "I think I might love you."

Andrea ruffles his hair in an affectionate gesture, or maybe it's Riccardo, he cannot really tell.

He feels, however, Andrea's stomach rise and fall underneath his face in a soft chuckle. Were anyone to walk in on them, they would not be able to recognize one body from another, not as Giampaolo is splayed rather possessively over not only his boyfriend but his boyfriend's _mentor_.

Giampaolo doesn't know how accurately he can trust his senses right now, but he has a distinct feeling they both smell faintly of Filippo Inzaghi, for perhaps vastly different reasons.

Andrea murmurs, "I think I might love me too."


End file.
